


it's a beautiful night (we're looking for something dumb to do)

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, slime puppy, the adventures of mole woman and rockstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Roman proposed marriage in Dundee. And now they're in Vegas.





	it's a beautiful night (we're looking for something dumb to do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leatherpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherpumpkin/gifts).

> i've never been to vegas.

The plane is too big for just the two of them. No coterie of aides or gaggle of lawyers. No Roys but Roman. No employees but Gerri. There is space, so much of it, but Roman spins his chair right in front of Gerri, watches her with dark eyes and a careful gaze. She looks at the papers in front of her, occasionally scrolling through her phone, answering messages, reading emails. 

“I’m bored,” Roman proclaims, tilting his head back over the edge of his chair, looking up at the plain ceiling of the plane, feet still on the floor, swaying back and forth, his knobby knees bobbling around. 

“You could be doing research too, you know.” Gerri says, not even looking up. Her hair curls around her cheek, the ends just flicking at her skin, her earrings peeking out, silver, catching the light as she purses her lips. She looks up at the silence, at getting no reply from Roman, and he’s staring at her again, in the way that he does, the way that leaves her stymied, unsure, turned on. 

“Come over here and read this.” She knows how to put on a commanding voice, wouldn’t be where she is today without that skill, surprising grit threaded through her soft tone. She was dismissed as dainty, as girlish, but her eyes were set on the road ahead of her, not on the people beside her, and she didn’t listen to them.

Roman moves quickly, lithely, a feral cat desperate for attention. He sits close, too close, his face next to hers, chin tucking into her shoulder, equal parts annoying and endearing, a child raised in the jungle of the city with no mother to teach him anything. His eyes flick back and forth as he reads the papers she’s holding, names and dates and figures, summaries of companies, lists of trades and deals and bargains. 

She doesn’t know what goes on in that brain of his, what he retains, what he tosses aside, deeming immaterial to his day-to-day life. She just hopes there’s enough there, enough to make it through their meeting, enough to make it a success. 

It was Roman’s idea, to come to Vegas, to meet with the head of Bjorn Media’s US Division. “Something to prove,” was all he said as explanation, and Gerri understands. He might be willing to subjugate himself to her, but to very few others in the world will he kowtow. “We’ll meet with Geoffrey and we’ll get him to sell, and it’ll be a win for Royco and a win for me.” Gerri arched her brow, more and more common where Roman is concerned. “For us,” he amends. 

Their unholy partnership, still informal, still uninked, but still strong. No one thinks anything of the time they spend together, no one finds it odd that it’s just the two of them going off to Vegas. It’s Gerri, the de facto babysitter of the Roy children, the woman they know better than their mother. If anyone can keep Roman in line, it’s her. No need to send anyone else. 

The plane lands in the heat, the tarmac hazy with the warm air steaming up, palm trees shaking and wriggling as they walk down the steps into the waiting SUV, the coolness of the air conditioning making goose pimples rise up on their arms. Roman leans against the window, eyes pointing up, finger pressed to the glass, catching everything they pass by. 

“Are you feeling ready?” Gerri asks, careful, tentative. Not a risk taker, not usually. Only where Roman is concerned. He just hums, neither a yes or a no, and she knows that means he’s nervous, that he just doesn’t want to show it. He hasn’t learned yet he doesn’t have to pretend for her, that she’s not interested in showboating, that she doesn’t have time for it. Not when she knows him so well, knows him to his core.

Gerri knows they booked two rooms for their stay, heard the arrangements being made, but knows that there’s very little chance Roman will spend any time in his. He walks with her to her room, along the plush carpet of the Palazzo floors, high enough up that the elevator ride takes more than thirty seconds, high enough up that they can see Vegas stretching out below them. 

“Do you think Geoff is going to try anything?” Roman asks, hands stuffed in his pockets. Gerri just cocks her head towards her door, an unspoken invitation to come in, one he might have taken anyway, even if it wasn’t offered. 

“I think Geoff is in over his head, but he’ll think that we’re grasping at straws,” she says, when the door closes behind them, setting down her purse on the living room chair, always a little in awe at the sheer size of the suites here, at the absurdity of it all. Make the rooms hellish so people spend all their time at the slots, that’s what she’d do. But perhaps that’s why she doesn’t work for Cruises or Parks or anything that hinges on patron comfort. 

Roman settles against the window, looking for all the world like a bundle of nerves. “He’ll think you’re just a groping little worm,” Gerri says, walking the tightrope of beration and coddling, doesn’t want to bring Roman down too much that he doubts himself, doesn’t want to build him up too much that his cockiness will overwhelm everything. 

“What do you think I am?” he asks, conversationally, unbuckling his belt, no embarrassment or shame in his movements. They both know what this is, what they do when they have the time, when it’s needed. When it’s wanted. 

“I think you’re an irresponsible playboy,” she says, stays where she is, even though she’s tempted to stand next to him, feel the heat coming from his body. “I think you’re a toadying fuck until it suits and that cock in your hands is one of the only things you have going for you.” Her voices hits the hard consonants in staccato, and she can see the stuttering movements of Roman’s hand, already working himself up. He doesn’t tear his eyes from hers, so dark, pupils blown wide. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice wavering as he works his hand up and down, thumb at the tipping point, moving back and forth.

“Yeah,” she echoes, almost sarcastic, moving to sit in the chair, crossing her legs, skirt riding up to her thighs, and Roman tracks it, his stare practically burning a hole through her nylons. “Yeah, Roman. I think you can only be trusted as far as your cum squirts, and you’re just lucky to have me here to keep you in line.” 

It’s enough to make him go over the edge, so fast, so quick, sometimes Gerri feels like she hasn’t earned it, that it’s too easy. Or perhaps she’s just gotten so good, so efficient, after weeks of calls, of late night visits, of whatever this is. His head finally drops as he looks to the mess on his trousers, on his hands. Without speaking, he goes to the restroom and Gerri hears the tap running; he doesn’t even bother to close the door. 

“Feeling ready?” she calls, looking at her watch. 

“As I’ll ever be,” he answers, poking his head around the doorframe, that devil-may-care smirk on his face, that half-mocking tone, like he doesn’t believe one word coming out of his own mouth. 

-

Geoff caved with ease, too in awe of being in the presence of a member of the infamous Roy family, too easily bamboozled by Gerri’s expertise and calm demeanor. It’s no surprise, she already knows what a good team they make, mole woman and rockstar. 

She thinks that’s probably how people see them, that Roman wasn’t far off when he characterized her as a dependable filing cabinet. As much as he needs what she gives him, she’s strangely validated to have this sexual sway over him, to be able to accomplish what a string of model girlfriends can’t. 

There’s no discussion of parting ways when the meeting is over, no talk of Roman going out to the casinos, to blowing his money on blackjack and roulette. He just follows Gerri to her room, orders champagne to be delivered. “I thought about pre-ordering it, but that’s just the kind of thing that, you know, jinxes everything,” he says, wiggling his fingers like he’s performing a hex. 

He lets her pop the bottle open, a towel wrapped around the top to catch the cork. Too many parties where someone’s lost an eye. She doesn’t even pour it into glasses, just sips right from the bottle, champagne spilling from her mouth, dripping down her chin, startling a laugh from Roman, a giggle from her. 

He takes the bottle from her, his mouth fitting squarely over the top as he tips it back. Gerri wipes at her face with the back of her hand, tongue catching drops as it can, and she watches Roman drink, watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He sets the bottle on his knee, hand fiddling with the foil that ripped when Gerri opened it, jagged edges folding down as his thumb moves across them. He jiggles his other knee, still nervous, though Gerri doesn’t know why. 

He doesn’t keep her in suspense for long, casting his eyes around the room, looking anywhere but at her face, before finally opening his mouth. “Ah ,remember that, ah, thing I talked about?” 

“You talk about an awful lot of things, Rome,” she says, holding out her hand to take the bottle back, pretends she doesn’t notice the slight flutter in her stomach at the touch of his fingers against hers. They so rarely touch, for all the other things they get up to. 

“Well, you know how the company is going to hell in a handbasket, I presume?” That tone is back, the one he puts on when he wants people to think he’s being casual, when he doesn’t want people to know how much he really cares about the outcome of what’s being said. 

“I did hear something about that, yes.” The champagne feels good against her throat, cool, bracing, and she takes another gulp, more finesse than the first one, though she can feel the bubbles hitting, making her a bit giddy. It’s nice, this feeling. Something she hasn’t felt in a while. 

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have...security or something?” He’s fidgeting, hands going wild, even as he tries to press down into his knees to stop them from moving, even as he takes a breath, trying to calm himself. “Like, you know, that thing where you don’t have to testify against me, I don’t have to say bad things about you, that whole thing?” 

She thinks she knows what he’s getting at, finally, that ridiculous marriage proposal in Scotland, weeks and weeks ago, the one she wasn’t sure he meant, the one he articulated so poorly that she was half convinced he was going to end up kidnapping her as some sort of cementing of their partnership. 

“Is that how marriage works?” she asks wryly, that ever-arching brow going up, and takes another sip of champagne because she needs to stall, because she doesn’t think she has a reason to say no. Because if he asks her again now, she knows she’ll go along with it. Because why not? Because it’s easy. Because they’ll be in it together, whatever it ends up being. 

Maybe Roman’s just looking for another line of inheritance in case the Roys lose everything. Maybe he’s invested in keeping her close. Maybe he wants to make sure she’s safe. Maybe he wants first crack at her legal expertise. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but she’s pretty sure he doesn’t know what she’s thinking either. A fair exchange. A balanced partnership. The best offer she’s ever had. 

“Or not,” Roman says, like he’s worried, like he thinks she’s saying no, and she lets him dangle, lets him writhe. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s not. It was a joke. Just joking. Ah ha ha, you know. That thing.” Bless him, he’s petrified. 

“Where’s the nearest chapel?” she asks, almost laughing at his face, at his gaping mouth, his wide eyes, like a kid at Christmas with a present he doesn’t know what to do with. It’s a dare for him, a challenge, a way to make him take charge. If this is what he wants, the two of them bound together for better or worse, then he needs to do it. She wonders if he’ll go all the way, how far this will go. 

It goes far enough that they’re standing in front of an ordained Elvis. 

A couple stands behind them, paid a thousand dollars to give up their slot, to let Gerri and Roman move in front of them, another five hundred for the marriage license neither of them thought to get. If they think the situation is strange, their words are drowned out by Elvis singing “Blue Hawaii” and Roman’s smirking chuckle. 

Elvis walked a laughing Gerri down the aisle, handed her off with a “Take care of her son,” to Roman, which only set Gerri off more. She can’t stop smiling, can’t stop laughing, takes her until the end of the song to regain composure. It’s ridiculous, so silly, so strange, to be instructed to take Roman’s hands in hers, to hold his fingers delicately, to feel the warmth of his palms. 

There are rings they bought on the way, because Roman said he’s determined to do this the right way. For all his irony, his sarcasm, there’s a thread of genuine care running through everything that leaves Gerri a little unseated, a little off-kilter. The vows are silly, things about loving him even when he’s a hound dog, promising her that she won’t be crying all the time. But they get through it and Gerri thinks this might be the longest she’s ever smiled, the most carefree she’s ever felt. 

It feels like her first marriage, back when it was new and lovely. How strange it is.

“You may now kiss the bride,” Elvis says, picking up his guitar, strumming the opening bars of “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You,” no longer paying attention to the two people in front of him, just finishing his job, earning his paycheck. 

They stare at each other. For all that they’ve done, they’ve never done this. Gerri wonders what Roman will taste of, gets her answer when his lips touch hers, when his tongue slips into her mouth, and there’s the hint of champagne filling her senses. She nips at his lower lip, just once, sharp and quick, and he pulls away with a smile. Nothing’s different, nothing’s changed.

They have to leave the chapel, other people are waiting, they’ve been here too long. A limo is waiting to take them down the Strip, but they have a car waiting, a patient driver more than happy to sit in front of this ridiculous chapel for as long as they need. don’t notice the strange looks they get, this woman in her 60s with a man in his 30s, strange, elated grins on their faces, hands just brushing as they step into their large black car.

The elevator ride feels even longer than before, something fizzing between them, bubbling up like the champagne they shared, like the second bottle they ordered to the room before heading up. The hallway seems to stretch before them as they walk to Gerri’s room - it’s always Gerri’s room.

The door shuts behind them and already Gerri pushes Roman against it. Now that they’ve kissed once, it’s a little addictive, the last forbidden barrier, the new frontier. She drags his lip between her teeth and he’s looking at her with some sort of rapturous awe. 

“You’re my wife,” he says, almost giddy, a high-pitched giggle escaping his lips, puffy and red from her attentions. 

“No, you’re _my_ husband,” she rasps, leaning in to kiss him again, to swipe her tongue through his mouth, to taste every bit of him. “And you’re lucky to be that.” She hums low in the back of her throat as he moves against her, the telltale feel of his hardening length hitting between her thigh. She mutters that he doesn’t deserve her, they can’t tell anyone, this is secret, it’s clandestine, it’s _wrong_. 

A knock on the door makes them spring apart, Gerri’s hands smoothing down her hair, straightening her blouse. Roman opens the door, leans against the frame with perfected nonchalance. He takes the bottle of champagne from the bellboy, coyly hands him a fifty dollar bill, and shuts the door once more, leaving them alone. 

Gerri’s lipstick is smudged, on her face, on Roman’s face. She reaches out and touches his face, surprisingly gentle, thumb brushing away the pink print. His face is unreadable, blank, and she pulls her hand away, snaking it back and stepping once more into the living room of her suite.

It’s deja vu as she opens the bottle of champagne, takes a large gulp, but doesn’t spill this time. Roman is watching, his dick still hard, a tent in his trousers. “Pleased with yourself?” she asks, her tone stern, and she sees his hands flutter unconsciously to his fly, fingers already toying with the zipper. 

“Proud of how you conducted yourself today? Fuck up son finally makes good?” Roman’s pants are open, already shoved down his hips, he’s so ready, semen pearling against the tip of his penis, white and glistening. Gerri feels a stirring of her own, her eyes never leaving Roman’s as she lowers the side zip of her skirt, as she lifts her hips from the chair, and slides her skirt down. 

His mouth drops open as she slips a hand between her legs, as she cups herself, a smile lighting her features as she finds just the right spot, the tingling center that makes her hips jump. Roman’s thumb circles his head, fingers moving slightly back and forth, the length underneath them reddening, deepening, hardening. 

“You’re just a rat in a human suit,” she says, her fingers starting their own rhythm, unconsciously matching Roman’s, their hands moving in tandem from across the room. 

“And you married me,” he fires back, eyebrow raised just like her own, a mirror image in the strangest way. Gerri barks a laugh, sharp and hard, because it’s funny, even if it means something.

“That’s right,” she says, “because I think it’s time you tried to make something of yourself. Because I think it’s time you stopped diddling yourself and participated in the world around you.” She stands, skirt still bunched, her steps awkward, stilted, but she makes it to Roman, kicks her skirt off behind her as she straddles him, tilts her hips to make a space for his cock, and slides herself down his length, slow, careful movements, taking as long as she can for him to fill her. 

His eyes are wide, his mouth slack, and his hands grip at the arms of the chair. She makes him wait for a moment, for two, for three, for a minute, and then slowly begins gyrations, her wetness mingling with his as she moves, and he finds her pace, bucking slightly, stopping and starting before he gets it right. But when he does, when they move together, the slurping sounds of wet skin on skin, Gerri knows he’s close, can see it in the white of his knuckles, in the biting of his lips. 

He comes with a shout that she swallows in a kiss, that she finishes with a bite. And when she stands, he does too.

He presses her up against the window, her skirt at her ankles, her ass pale in the moon, a second light for anyone below who happens to look up. She doesn’t feel shame, doesn’t have time for it, not with Roman hard, between her legs, not when he moves down, mouthing her breasts through her bra, teeth biting through the fabric. 

Not when his tongue presses up against her, flicking, his mouth sucking, his teeth nipping. Her hands scrabble uselessly at the glass, no purchase to be found except in Roman’s hair, her fingers clenching in the dark strands, and he takes it as an urging to push harder, to go faster, and Gerri can’t take, hissing out her pleasure from clenched teeth, eyes rolling back, squeezing shut. Her other hand pushes at her own breast, runs up her neck, against her heated skin, trying everything, anything, to help her find a port in this storm of feeling, of pleasure. 

It’s a nip, a sharp bite, that pushes her over the edge, that makes a guttural groan leave her throat, and she sags, bending slightly forward, all too aware of the show she’s giving to anyone who can see their window, unable to care, not when there’s a pleasant thrumming of her bones, not when exhaustion feels so delightful. 

“We’ve had a long day,” she says, brushing her hand through Roman’s hair, mussed from her grasp. He looks up at her, smug, smarmy, knows he’s done well, his lips wet from her, glistening in the lamplight. She kisses him, her body stretching down, her back protesting, hair brushing his cheeks, and tastes herself on his tongue, wonders at how they mix together.

She doesn’t complain when he climbs into bed beside her, not when he rolls to the furthest edge away and turns his back. 

And she doesn’t complain in the morning when she finds him tucked against her side, hand resting comfortably against her breast.

-

“How did it go in Vegas?” Shiv asks, her voice crackling over the speakerphone as the plane taxis.

“I married your godmother to seal our whirlwind romance and then we fucked like rabbits against the window of her hotel room.”

“Gerri, what happened?” Shiv asks, impatience in her voice, and Gerri can’t hide the smile on her face, the smirk that always appears when Roman is at his most incorrigible. 

“Roman made the deal,” she says, even though it was a team effort. “And you can take or leave anything else he just said.” She slides the ring off her finger when she hangs up the phone, not waiting to hear Shiv’s response; they’ll talk when they’re back in New York.

It’s tempting to kiss him here, alone on this plane, no one but the pilot and one discrete flight attendant to know, but instead Gerri sits in her seat, one leg tucked beneath her, shoe on the ground, fallen to its side. Roman sits beside her, hovering too close, like he always does, a moth to the flame, a bumblebee to a flower.

“We did it,” he says, gleeful, inane, eyes bright and shining.

“Yes,” Gerri says, turning the small gold band between her fingers, “We did.” 


End file.
